


To mark the occasion

by Sadisticsparkle (sadisticsparkle)



Series: My heart travels with you [2]
Category: Marvel Noir
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Community: cap_ironman, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Dancing, Stony Bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 08:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadisticsparkle/pseuds/Sadisticsparkle
Summary: Steve has always loved drawing - and has always loved what he draws as well.(Part of a series but stand-alone.)





	To mark the occasion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [This_Is_Captain_Handsome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_Is_Captain_Handsome/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tony dancing with Steve](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/433547) by Pocketdoodles. 



> This is a fill for the 'Artist/Muse' for the round 2 of Stony Bingo. It's also part of a larger series, but it stands on its own.
> 
> Thanks to This_is_Captain_Handsome whose gorgeous art inspired this.

There was very little you could do when you were sick, couldn’t breathe and most of the kids in the block were bullies who hated you. Steve didn’t mind the hate - it meant he was doing the right thing, as his mother had said. But he did mind the boredom whenever his world was reduced to his bed and the small window overlooking the street and his mother’s fussing.

(The fussing was the only bearable part, even if it competed with the guilt about worrying his mother.)

Maybe that was why he had fallen in love with drawing. It was a challenge he could apply all his focus to because there were always new techniques to master and new subjects to study. He spent hours copying the way the shadows at dusk changed the tenement or the expressions on his mother’s face. He had sketches of New York covered in snow and of his toes below the sheets. Cats stretching under the sun and dogs panting in the stifling heat of summer. Sketchbooks upon sketchbooks of the minutia of life.

And between those scenes of beloved routine, there were pages filled with daring adventures traveling through vibrant oppressive jungles or hypnotic vast deserts and pages upon pages of the silhouettes of ships crossing the Arctic Sea or warriors riding across the steppes.

Each sketch was a memory. Each sketch was a wish.

 

The man was… handsome, handsome in a way Steve had drawn a thousand times, trying out the shapes of his desire in secret pages he'd always tear off the sketchbook in the end. How many times he had sketched that kind of sharp, defined profile and that type of expressive eyes? The stranger’s sparkling smile made Steve's knees go weak even if it wasn't directed at him.

How could it, really, when Steve was invisible? He huddled into the corner a little bit more. Coming down to that place had been a bad idea. The smoke was burning his lungs and nobody had even looked at him. He couldn’t blame them. He really was nothing and his fantasies would always remain that, fantasies. At least the music was good and there was a nice… view.

The stranger had turned around and he certainly had a good tailor and a strong, wide back. Steve turned his head away. He was staring and people would notice. When he glanced back, the stranger was striding across the room with his hands in his pockets and bumping into people. Steve leaned against the wall and looked at his shoes. His hands were trembling and he didn’t dare look up.

‘I know you were looking.’

The voice was deep and rich and the stuff of Steve’s wet dream. It was also slightly mocking. Steve’s eyes snapped up and he crossed his arms.

‘It’s not illegal.’

Up close, the stranger’s twinkling blue eyes were magnetic, just like his smirk. ‘I didn’t mind. Just thought you’d appreciate the chance of doing more than looking.’

Steve’s mouth went dry. His heart raced and blood was leaving his brain. Damn it. Why was the fellow so damn handsome? He had to look… aloof and not as nervous as he was, so he squared his shoulders and tilted his chin up. ‘Care for a dance?’

‘You offering?’

Steve and words didn’t get along well, but he was better with action. He grabbed the stranger’s hand and put his arm around the stranger’s waist. The man’s eyes widened a bit, but he said nothing.

‘Any comments?’

The man put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. It was heavy and muscular. ‘Yes. It’s rude, not telling me your name.’

‘Steve Rogers. What about you?’

The man scratched the back of his head. ‘Henry Hellrung. That’s my name. Yes.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Henry,’ Steve said and then they stepped into the dance floor.

 

Maybe Tony wouldn’t show up that day - Steve hadn’t been to the nightclub lately, his mind filled with experiments and patriotic dreams. Maybe he had missed his chance or maybe Tony had found somebody else.

It was foolish to think that Tony Stark would want another go - well, a fourth go - at tiny, small, useless Steve Rogers. At least the first three times had been real. After their first night together, he knew it wasn’t pity. The way Tony’s eyes had wandered down his body and the way his fingers had curled around Steve’s wrist had been… something else. Something hot that Steve still hesitated to call lust. He had been so distracted by it that he had failed to notice who Tony even was. Tony had been handsome enough he had forgotten how many times he had sketched that face, dreaming of a better job, a better future.

But Tony was probably bored by now. Whatever novelty Steve held, it would have disappeared after how thoroughly Tony had used his body. He blushed. Tony had made him feel things he didn’t think were possible… but he was an awkward virgin and Tony Stark was, well, Tony Stark.

Maybe if Project Rebirth worked out, he could try to find Tony again. If he was strong, if he proved himself, he would have something to offer. Something that’d make Tony stay.

‘Well, look at who deigned to show up.’

He turned around. Tony was standing there, smiling at him. He blushed. He had to stop doing that - it gave him away. ‘I’ve been busy.’

That sounded like a lie, but Tony didn’t look offended. ‘Oh, that sounds interesting.’

Could he tell him? Erskine had said it was classified, but Tony was part of the war effort. Maybe he even already knew… but Erskine had also said it was risky. He would tell Tony later because now Tony’s hand was now on the small of his back and his lips were whispering filthy, urgent things in his ear.

The truth could wait.

 

Sometimes, when there was enough time to sit down and pretend those weren’t bombs in the distance, he would draw what he remembered. He’d draw the shops that lined the streets of his childhood, he’d draw the way his mother would laugh and he’d draw the way Tony would wipe the sweat off his brow. He’d draw home and peace and love, and wonder if it had even been real.

It had been good training at first when he didn’t know his strength and his big fingers were clumsy and broke charcoal and pencils alike. Then it had been a piece of him that hadn’t changed, a tether to his old life back in New York.

Other times, when he could steal a moment or two and there was enough light, he would sketch what he saw. How Bucky cheated at poker and how Namor scowled. Toro and the Torch arguing over lunch. The way Tony looked, sleeping next to the campfire, a coffee cup still in his hand, those two months he had spent with the Invaders.

Steve didn’t know it yet, but when the mud of the battlefield and the taste of the rations became but a distant memory, the sketches became surreal time capsules, small pieces of a time long gone but still trapped in charcoal lines.

 

The moonlight sneaked in through the window. He would have to close the curtains later because Tony was a fussy sleeper who hated the sun. And the darkness would hide how sparse the hotel room looked even from Steve’s senses.

‘I don’t think they’ll ever let us stay here again,’ Tony said.

‘It’s not like I’d want to.’ Or as if it was likely. ‘Bed should have been sturdier.’

Tony laughed against his chest. It tickled.

‘You were too heavy for it. And too… enthusiastic.’

He blushed, but at least Tony wasn’t looking. He hadn’t been able to help himself - it had been months since they had last seen each other and that had been just one night at Steve’s camp. There had been some fumbling in the dark, but Tony had been hurt in battle and Steve was still recovering from a bullet wound. It was nothing compared to the leisurely weekend they had been granted now. He had to take advantage of it.

‘It’s not my fault if I’m passionate.’

‘I like your passion. I also like sleeping in places that are not the floor.’

‘It’s better than a bedroll.’

Tony snorted but didn’t press the point. He was very comfortable on top of Steve, so technically he wasn’t sleeping on the floor. He looked sated and at peace, and Steve couldn’t stop staring.

He moved a little, despite Tony’s protests and grabbed his sketchbook. He needed to draw Tony like this - not a hero, not a star, not a soldier, just an exhausted lover. Sometimes, when they hadn’t talked for a while and letters weren’t forthcoming, the only image of Tony Steve could conjure was Iron Man dead somewhere where he couldn’t reach. His face pale and his body stiff, the armor mangled, his eyes gone dark and the electricity of his movements gone. On those nights, he’d take his sketches out and look at them over and over again, like some sort of profane prayer that’d keep death away.

 

He was back where it all had started. Sick and bored and being fussed over. At least the view was better from Tony’s - well, from Steve and Tony’s and wasn’t that wild - apartment. He could see the entire city. It always reminded him of a very busy beehive.  
Tony was sitting next to the bed, reading the latest draft from Pepper. He had been reading it aloud until Steve made one nitpick too many.

He sighed and pouted at Tony.

It was ineffective.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Rogers. I told you not to go after the pirate.’

‘He sold us out. I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.’

‘When have you ever let anybody get away with anything?’

Tony sighed and moved to the bed. A point for Steve, but he managed to hide the smirk. He put his healthy arm around Tony’s waist and dragged him closer.

‘I can’t do that. I’m Captain America.’

‘Well, that’s why Captain America is not allowed to leave the bed and no, we can’t do _that_ either.’

‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’

Tony rolled his eyes and thrust a brand new sketchbook against Steve’s chest.

Steve opened it and, like so many times before, started drawing Tony’s familiar profile. But now it wasn’t an illusion or a way to chase away boredom or even a desperate way of gripping of a happiness he thought he’d lose.

As life raged outside their window, he drew Tony’s salt-and-pepper hair and the wrinkles around his eyes. Now, drawing Tony wasn’t even a dam built to stop the raging current of time. It was a way to bear witness to a life well-spent.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Moon River](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659961) by [Shadowolf19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowolf19/pseuds/Shadowolf19)




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